Metamorphosis
by Super Lizard
Summary: Between lights out and lights up, we missed at least 20 minutes of denouement. Here it is. Khan Noonien Singh awakes in a cell with every reason to be executed. Spoilers for Star Trek: Into Darkness
1. Chapter 1

There was a dull, throbbing, irrelevant pain in his head. It dragged him out of unconsciousness and left him on the floor of the prison cell, rejoined with the aching toolbox that was his physical form. The prison was clean and well-lit, but had no comforts at all. This was a holding cell, not a final destination where he would wait out the end of his life. His long, miserable failure of a life. Alone, surrounded by ant-like creatures, all the ones like him dead. A wolfdog whose flock had been slaughtered while he watched.

There would be no way out of the cell. They knew him now. He didn't have anywhere to go but the grave, anyway. He pressed himself up to sit against the wall, ignoring the sharp pain from his left shoulder where his opponent had clutched at his nerves so tightly that his bones had separated; his head was still buzzing. Whatever Spock hit him with had been almost enough to kill him.

A sensor on the cuffs of his wrists sensed his movement and sent a notification to the guard's station. Footsteps approached from the end of the block. He sat motionless, watching the glass as the doctor appeared with a tablet under one arm, stopped, and watched him.

"I'd like to say 'welcome back,' but you'd do everyone a big favor if you'd just die." He approached the glass and dragged over the port ring. "You've been out for two days. Can you stand?"

A moment later, the request registered past the buzzing, but the doctor already assumed his was being difficult.

"Those cuffs on your wrists and ankles, they're magnetic. Powerful enough to move a truck where it doesn't want to drive. There's one on your neck that's telling me about your physical state remotely, so I don't have to mess with you as much. Right now, it's telling me you're low on some things that are necessary for keeping you alive. Like red blood cells."

He shuddered, then leaned heavily against the wall and pushed himself to stand against it. He edged over toward the front of the cell, focusing on the doctor and trying not to let his vision cloud. Even so, by the time he slumped against the glass, he couldn't hear past the buzzing.

Dr. McCoy shook his head. "You look terrible. The cuffs are telling me you're not faking." He dragged the port ring down to the level of his patient. "Put your arm through. I'm going to give you an injection of glucose, proteins, some vitamins, and an anti-inflammatory. Depending on how your system reacts, we may step up to painkillers."

He'd never had a painkiller in his life, but it sounded nice. He shakily pushed his arm through the ring and let the doctor do as he pleased. In a few moments, his breathing seemed easier and the buzzing in his head quieted. He let out a sigh and sank to the floor.

Dr. McCoy watched the reaction through the eyes of the sensors in the neck cuff. "As I thought, you over-expended yourself. Your body is only healing using resources it cannibalizes from healthy tissue. As soon as you're able, you need a good meal. And a bath." He pulled the port ring, which deactivated and detached with a quiet pop.

"What are you going to do with me?" he rasped before the doctor could walk away. "Am I to be experimented on? Shall I bleed to save your people?"

Dr. McCoy raised an eyebrow. "As much as I would love the opportunity to decode whatever makes you so damn special, it's really not my decision. It's his."

A second pair of footsteps, lighter and more careful, approached.

Spock stared down at the crumpled man, expressionless.

The buzzing in his head returned. He drew upon a reservoir of energy he didn't know was there, and flung himself at the glass in a mindless fury. "You killed them," he howled. "You killed them all. Every angel and beast of them."

He raised an eyebrow and did not flinch. "I assure you, I did no such thing. Though if they are all like you, perhaps it is better to leave them asleep forever."

His fury withdrew behind a pang of memory. His wife's caramel face made pale by the cold and glass. Waking in confusion and pain, three centuries and 28 souls lost, to be clapped in cuffs and bones broken, not knowing if the other 72 lived or died or where they were. Broken and healed and broken again until he was compliant, until he did what he knew was wanted. "You're lying," he said evenly. "You want something from me."

"Your compliance would be appreciated, but we have already taken what we need from you." He knelt and looked at anguish through glass for the second time that week. "I can show them to you, if you would like. But in return, I want to know everything that has happened to you."

That was a weird requirement. "So you can make more like me? I am the only, and I am the last."

"On the contrary. So we can prevent another of you from being made again, by anyone."

"You can show me my family?" he asked, shaking again. "They're not dead. In return, you want... a story."

"We will attach sensors to your scalp and record memories from the time of your birth on. With the aide of computers, we should be able to put together a narrative and trace any vital records that may exist of your creation."

"It's history, man," the doctor added.

He watched the commander for a long moment. "Show them to me first. I must know."

The commander paused. "The only way I can show you that you will trust and understand, will also give me access to your consciousness. You must trust me in this, or the process will be difficult and possibly painful."

"There are very few ways in which I have not already been violated. Are you sure my consciousness is something you want to access?"

"I am not certain it is what I want, but it appears to be necessary."

He tilted his head against the glass, a picture of misery. "Very well."

Spock placed the port ring on the glass near his face. He and the doctor exchanged looks, then he reached a hand through the glass and placed his fingertips firmly against the skull of a madman.

* * *

A pang of physical pain distorted everything, but it was possible to make out lumps of knowledge and snaps of time. The commander's view from the first person of the cryotubes laid out in rows in sick bay, extracted from the torpedoes, with a tired but pleased Dr. McCoy reporting that all of the occupants were alive and unharmed. The view from the Chair, a voice resonating, 'They are _your torpedoes_.'

The distortion increased as Khan's experience filled in what happened next. An intense fire in the chest, heart exploding not with the crashing ship, but with the realization that the torpedoes were armed. The following catastrophe of bruises and broken bones was nothing compared to that. The ship shuddering to a halt after a hard impact and a long slide. Bones knitting, his body living even though he no longer felt alive. Propelled by grief and hatred across 30 feet of nothing and almost a mile of pavement, searching for a way to do the most harm, barely caring about his pursuer until his demonically alien face appeared and placed revenge between him and his suicide. Alien- everything was demonically alien. The Vulcan, the humans, the earth, space, nothing made any sense now that he was alone.

Neither was sure whose rage was greater at that point. Their memories collided in a jumble of kicks and blows, both of them grieving, furious.

And then darkness. Khan saw himself laid out, a heap of bruises and uselessness, and the hatred that poured from him in that moment almost startled Spock. Uhura's voice, calming the commander and making everything crystal clear again. The distortion faded, the edges of the experience became defined and orderly. They transported up to the Enterprise, where McCoy took the unconscious man's blood, breaking every regulation on prisoner treatment, and gave it to Kirk. Khan being carried and placed unceremoniously but not unkindly in the bare prison cell. Waking up. Uncertainty. Confusion. Pain. Fear. Grief. Isolation. Failure. Suspicion. Surrender. A pale hand reaching toward him. The last ember of hope, rewarded, glowed. Past and present converged.

* * *

When the bond broke, Spock was surprised to find himself leaning heavily on the glass, chest aching. It had been a powerful experience and he wasn't sure he understood all of it.

The man stared up at him, face open, body limp. Vulnerable. Compliant. Completely unlike Spock had ever seen him. "Keep them safe, and I will do anything that you want."

"Tell us your story, and then you can go back to sleep."

A sob burst out of him, relief and amusement and exhaustion. He curled in on himself, gasping.

Spock stood and paced away, giving instructions to McCoy as he did. "When he is able, see that he receives a decent meal, access to bathing facilities, and a change of clothes."

"Are you okay?" McCoy asked, concerned.

"I need to see Jim."

"He's still not-"

"I know." A familiar emotion had transferred between them during the meld, and he felt irrational loyalty like he never had before. "I just need to see him. Please, Dr. McCoy. I am unable to explain."

The doctor smiled a little and patted the Vulcan on the shoulder. "No need. You sound more reasonable than ever."

..

Spock returned to the medical bay early the next morning. McCoy and two security officers already had Khan out of the cell and in the scanner. One guard stood at the foot of the scanner, one at the head, blasters drawn and aimed at the floor. Everyone seemed a little tense.

"Gentlemen," Spock greeted. "Has there been a problem?"

The doctor didn't look up from the readouts on his computer screen. "The patient began having breathing troubles shortly after you left. This morning, he was unable to stand and walk, so I put him in the scanner. The magnetic cuffs had to come off, so I brought security down, just in case."

The commander joined him behind the computer console, en eyebrow raised. "I do not believe they will be necessary."

The doctor pointed to cracked bones and fractured ribs. "This. Characteristic of injuries sustained during an impact like a car accident, not a dead landing in a star ship. You chased him with some of these; they're too far out of alignment for them to have come from a fistfight, even with you." He pointed out more. "Those are you, though. Remind me never to piss you off."

"He isn't healing."

"He is, and at a faster rate than I've ever seen, but not like Kirk described seeing on Kronos. It could be because the bones aren't properly set. We're going to have to set them, and because his bone composition is totally different than a normal human, we get to do it by hand." He sighed. "I'm surprised he didn't just solve himself and go into shock and die."

Spock was almost surprised at the hostility the doctor let creep into his voice. Even to a half-human, it was obvious. "Doctor, are you able to treat this patient with sound judgment?"

"No," the doctor surprised him. "But I can still treat him better than anyone else would."

That was hard to argue. When the computer beeped a signal that the scan was complete, Spock picked up the magnetic cuffs from the console and approached the scanner. The security guards lifted their phasers and stood ready. Spock watched as the scanner opened automatically to reveal a man bare, bruised, and broken, but somehow invulnerable. He leaned forward not unquickly and attached the neck cuff.

Khan reached up and placed a hand on Spock's forearm, not grasping. They looked upon each other for a moment only.

"I do not believe the presence of security is necessary nor beneficial at this time."

The security guards took the hint and dismissed themselves.

Spock helped the patient to sit up, then placed on the wrist and ankle cuffs not tightly. "Mr. Singh, the doctor has briefed me on your medical status. You have some broken bones that we will need to set."

He looked about to speak, but the words escaped. He nodded instead. Before he could form the request into words, Dr. McCoy handed Spock a white cotton robe, which Spock offered to him. He took it and tried to get it around himself, but stopped and exhaled raggedly, tasting copper.

Spock quickly tucked the robe around him and guided him to lie down again. "We will transfer you to the gurney. Be still."

They rolled him gently onto the gurney, careful not to move him more than necessary. Spock pulled the gurney over to a table frame, lowered it, and locked it in place. The doctor elevated it so the patient was half reclining. A mechanical arm folded out of the table frame and Bones set his tablet in it, positioned it over the left leg, and called up the relevant image from the scanner. "You tried to set these yourself," he accused. "You did a terrible job."

"There was nothing to brace against," Khan groused.

"Your arms are broken! What are you going to brace yourself with, your teeth? Oh never mind. We need to set these before they knit together wrong. Spock, hold him down."

The commander raised an eyebrow, considering how to do so without causing any more damage. He decided there was no good way at all, so he stood at the head of the examining table and wrapped one arm around the patient's chest to hold him in place.

"This is going to be uncomfortable," the doctor warned.

Khan sat back and closed his eyes. When the doctor wrenched his lower leg into place, he grunted. He kept his eyes tightly closed while the doctor called up the image of the other leg, grasped just above his ankle, and wrenched the other in place.

"You'll have to relax your arms. I can't fix anything while you're all clenched up tighter than a priest at a pride parade."

He focused on transferring the tension to other parts of his body.

The doctor jerked his right humerus into place, then lifted the aching arm and jerked his collar bone back until the swollen ends met and stuck. He put a needle under the skin at that exact point and injected something that burned. "This is a biodegradable polymer. It will hold your bone together for six weeks, then your body will break it down. I'd like to put casts on your other bones, since they're harder to get to."

"No need," Khan dismissed, voice tight. "They should mend in a matter of hours."

Spock released him, but hovered nearby.

Bones stood back and removed his tablet from the mechanical arm, which retracted automatically into the table frame. "You can stay on the table, then, so you don't move around and undo all that hard work. No funny business." He snapped the magnetic cuffs on his wrists, but left the ankle cuffs off for the moment. "I'll give you a nutrient booster in about an hour. Your body is burning through resources. You should try to eat solid food whenever you feel up to it, though. We can order whatever you want, as long as the replicator has the recipe." The silence was getting a little awkward. "Do you want something to read?"

Khan stared at him, trying but failing to remain unreadable. When he spoke, he sounded incredulous. "To read... I killed your captain. You're offering me tea and biscuits and a newspaper? You fixed my bones and... I do not understand you. Why?"

"Because this is how Star Fleet treats prisoners." Bones gave him a crooked smile. "Besides, you didn't kill Jim, you only tried. You actually saved him. From yourself." The crooked smile reached his eyes as he realized the irony. "Tea and biscuits, coming up."

"Wait." Stunned, he worked to find words. "Thank you."

The doctor pointed at him and looked at Spock. "Look, even he has manners." He strolled out of the examination room toward the nearest replicator station.

Spock almost rolled his eyes.

Khan leaned his head back and closed his eyes, thoughts finally overpowering pain. "You showed me a part of your mind. How much of mine did you see in return?"

"I saw enough to suspect that you are a lesser monster than we thought, but not enough to pass judgment on your actions."

"You don't speak lies, but you do lie." He remained motionless, but his irritation was clear in his voice. "Did you see what happened when Marcus awoke me?"

"No." He tilted his head slightly. "Do you think it would be relevant in a determination of your guilt?"

He pressed his lips together for a moment, then replied, "No."

"It will be a part of the recording we make of your memories. We will certainly review it when we piece together the narrative of Admiral Marcus's crimes. Is there anything you believe is necessary for us to see in the interim?"

He didn't answer the question. "You're planning to put me to sleep before any judgment is made."

"Yes."

"I..." he tried to spit out the words, but they were unfamiliar and molasses-thick. "I trust you."

Spock did not expect that.

* * *

True to his promise, his bones knit by the evening shift and he obediently returned to his cell, which had been thoughtfully furnished with a panel to read from and a replicator programmed for culinary synthesis. Khan's food requests were more or less recognizable to the replicator, and what came out of the replicator was more or less recognizable to Khan. He ate like a man who hadn't eaten for weeks. He read histories and news. When he slept, he was so still that the attending physicians checked the sensor readouts to be sure he was still breathing. Two days passed before Bones allowed Spock to begin recording.

Spock brought a case of recording equipment and connected to the computer interface before awaking Khan, who was lying very still in the back of the cell. He tapped gently on the glass. "Khan."

Khan twitched, then sat up slowly. He quickly looked beyond the Vulcan to make sure they were the only ones in the room, then without provocation he confided, "That is not my name."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Khan is a title. My name is just Noonien." He stood and came to the glass, stopping at comfortable distance for conversation.

Spock almost smiled. "Noonien. The doctor informs me that you are strong enough to attempt this recording."

He did not reply.

"I have, in light of your previous misdeeds, requested two security officers to be in the room. I hope that you will understand this as an indication of my respect, rather than my distrust."

He smiled. "It would be an indication of your respect if you requested more than two."

"I only enumerated the personnel who would be -in- the room. I did not count those who will be immediately outside."

His smile became genuine. "You do lie all the same."

Spock wasn't certain he liked this recovered, capable Noonien Singh as well as the defeated man of two days before. He let the security guards into the room. They flanked Spock and stood with weapons drawn as the glass slid into the wall, and suddenly it was like they were staring into something as lifeless and terrible as the vacuum of space.

The smile vanished now. "Shall we begin?"


	2. Chapter 2

All of this story is meant to be read while listening to Philip Glass's 'Metamorphisis.' You can find it on Youtube.

* * *

**Two**.

They escorted him to the examining table and instructed him to lie back. Security locked the magnetic cuffs to the metal table. The doctor shaved his head to attach the electrodes. The commander ran wires to the computer and started the decoding and recording program.

"The computer is able to guide you sequentially through your memories, but the process is much faster if you focus and try not to affect the pace or direction," Spock instructed. "The experience is likely to be unpleasant. Some of the experiences will not be within your conscious memory, but stored in your mind and forgotten. Some will be as real as when you experienced them. You are restrained by the cuffs in order to keep you stationary. Are you ready?"

"I am," he replied, trying his best to sound bored.

Spock pressed a button on the computer.

* * *

From the notes of Doctor Leonard McCoy

Re: Noonien Singh Recording, Session 1

"Khan" Noonien Singh has no memory of his first moments. For most humans, the moment of birth is printed large on the parchment of the brain, but locked away because of its traumatic nature. The first memory in Noonien's mind is of what appears to be a plastic incubator, common in the 20th century. He was unable to identify the any of the people in his first year as his parents- in fact, he was unable to remember having any parents at all. He identified a woman named Sarina Kaur as the woman who contributed the basic structure of his genetic material, but it is apparent by the obvious differences in their appearances that his genetic material has been altered. Intentionally.

In his first memories, he was identified as a failure by one of the... scientists... that created him. The man stated that while Noonien displayed all of the intended genetic alleles associated with the X chromosome, his Y chromosome alterations were incomplete. Early in his first year, his creators tried to use trauma to correct this, nurture rather than nature, but the outcome wasn't what they wanted. They became impatient with him, and lost interest. They chose to concentrate on his younger, quote, brothers and sisters, unquote.

While Noonien got along quite well with his siblings, as they grew older the difference became clear. His brothers and sisters were vicious and didn't like to think for themselves. They were incredibly intelligent, but independence was intentionally absent from their genetic code. Noonien frequently snuck out of the compound where they lived- in northern India or Pakistan, it was never stated aloud- but he always returned and usually was able to talk his way out of any punishment. In the time away, he found and integrated himself into the society of a Sikh village.

Though he was still a child of seven, he planned a Sikh takeover of the Golden Temple and the assassination of Indira Gandhi, which did in fact take place. While politics are not my strong point- I'm sure Commander Spock will provide notes enough on the political and social implications in his own notes- it seemed he was interested in the assassination plans from an intellectual perspective as well as through loyalty to his adopted family. He was too young to take power himself. The Sikhs, however, had adopted him and called him Noonien Singh, making him one of their own. In return, he created and enforced a belief amongst the locals that a ghost protected the Sikh village and anyone who approached uninvited would be killed. That second part, at least, was true.

The raw recording is paired with neural imaging to gauge his reactions now to what happened back then. The computers are currently analyzing and isolating significant brain activity for possible untruths. It's unlikely the subject can lie to the computer, but still... I wouldn't put it past this guy to find a way.

* * *

Noonien returned to his cell without incident. An hour passed. He ordered supper from the replicator and sat cross-legged on the floor, seeming content for the moment.

Spock returned to a room empty of every other soul. It was mostly silent, but for Noonien. He greeted the man politely. "Khan Singh."

Noonien smiled unreadably. "Commander. I didn't tell you my name so you could call me by my title."

"Then you should call me by name, as well." He dragged a chair over to the glass and sat. "You are still a vegetarian, though you do not seem to follow all of the customs of the Sikhs."

"Correct. I am not entirely a Sikh."

"What do you consider yourself to be?" He was genuinely curious.

"You are not entirely Vulcan." Noonien didn't answer the question.

Spock raised his chin slightly. "No. My mother was human."

"I might be more Sikh than you are Vulcan. But apples to oranges." He paused for a moment, and Spock wasn't sure who was the subject behind glass. "You're not as emotionless as you wish you were."

"I have... difficulties," he allowed. "Though I have attempted to embrace the culture of my father, it seems my mother has had more influence on me. You did not answer my question."

Noonien finished his meal and put the tray back in the replicator unit for cleaning. He returned to the same place on the floor and sat, cross-legged as before. "I am that I am. I have the good fortune to decide what that means. I find the warrior culture of the Sikh to be more noble than any other warrior culture found on Earth. They were kind to me as no others were, nor have been since. I find the juxtaposition of aggression and benevolence, power and peace, to be the superior way of life. There are many trappings and affectations of the culture that I have no need for- the traditional manner of dress, the ceremonial knife, and so forth. So I did not adopt those. You feel loyalty, love, and curiousity like a human. You are unable to deny those emotions."

Spock could say nothing.

"Are they incompatible with what Vulcan culture finds morally commendable?"

"...No. They are not incompatible with moral standards."

"Only with the 'no emotions' rule."

"Correct."

Noonien nodded. "Then you have already decided what you consider yourself to be, and it is not entirely anything."

He did not answer. There was no question. "You have no connection to the heritage of your father or mother?"

"If they had a heritage, they abandoned it when they began meddling with the natural order of things to create me. No _culture_ was ready to embrace the kinds of atrocities that were committed in the name of resources and racial superiority. But there were many precursors of such things happening in human history, and I doubt the eugenics wars were the last. I was not so effective."

He raised an eyebrow. "It was the last. How do you mean, 'so effective'?"

"You will see."

And the conversation was over.


	3. Chapter 3

I haven't read Greg Cox's books, but I did steal two of his characters and secret-history'd his secret history.

I also verbed a genre.

* * *

Three.

* * *

From the notes of Commander Spock

Re: Noonien Singh Recording, Session 2

Shortly after Noonien Singh's tenth year, a pair of scientists arrived at the compound; he remembers their names as Gary Seven and Roberta Lincoln. The neural imaging shows a suspicion bordering on hostility toward them both, though he hid those emotions well and associated with them both daily. Mr. Seven showed a great interest in the emotional development of all of the children, though he only expressed that interest when other scientists were not present. Ms. Lincoln spent a great deal of time teaching the children about the social customs of various cultures, as well as sociopolitical history.

Young Noonien wanted to trust Ms. Lincoln and stories of the outside world fascinated him. In spite of his status as a failed experiment, he understood and thrived in education beyond any of his brothers and sisters. In his eleventh year, the children began having lessons in the sciences and warfare from Mr. Seven. Noonien still sought time with Ms. Lincoln, which seemed to arouse the jealousy of Mr. Seven.

Noonien has very clear memories of the confrontation with Mr. Seven. After a lesson, upon request, he followed Mr. Seven to the scientist's own quarters, where Mr. Seven expressed the wish that Noonien would study genetics and improve humanity without use of political or military power. Noonien did not reject the idea, but inquired why Mr. Seven came to the compound, if he did not approve of the project's goals. Mr. Seven replied that he was interested in the nuclear reactor that ran the compound and an invention he believed could transport matter from one location to another, but needed an energy source as unlimited as the reactor.

Noonien, suspicious as a man but curious as a child, asked to see this matter transporter in action. Mr. Seven promised to show it to him later, but only if he did as he was told and... removed his clothing. Mr. Seven explained that he wished to know what a young god looked like.

Noonien refused at first. Dr. Seven argued, seeming more agitated over time. He tried to justify his request, then to use guilt to coerce, then threats. Finally, he attempted to physically force cooperation. Noonien, unsure of how to react to such behaviour from an authority figure, avoided the man but did not strike him. Dr. Seven became visibly angry and showed Noonien a device which he described as a remote. It would remove the graphite rods from the reactor core, causing a nuclear meltdown and destroying the compound, along with all of its inhabitants.

Any thorough reader will surely find that Doctor McCoy's notes end abruptly at approximately three hours into the session two recording. He left the room at this time. It falls to me to speculate on the emotional context of the following events, though I am not as skilled in such a thing as the doctor.

Noonien, feeling that he had no choice, obeyed. Mr. Seven then touched him and himself inappropriately, until Noonien's emotional reaction became a physical one- he vomited on his assailant. In the moment of surprise, Noonien took the device from Mr. Seven, disassembled it, then physically assaulted Mr. Seven until the man lost consciousness.

At this moment, it seems appropriate to note the incredible violence with which he exacted his revenge. In the recordings so far, even as he defended his adopted village from potential enemies, he did not intentionally cause pain. His enemies were killed in the quickest and most efficient ways possible. Mr. Seven did not have that blessing; he was beaten savagely, but without any intent to kill. He survived the encounter. Noonien carried him to the medical wing after.

Roberta Lincoln encountered the two in the corridor and seemed to know what had happened. She collected the children together, took them to the medical wing, and with Seven's matter transporter, moved them all out of the compound and several miles away. From their destination, it was possible to view the explosion which followed, as the incomplete matter transporter drew too much from the electrical system of the compound and overloaded the nuclear reactor. From my limited knowledge of 20th century nuclear reactors, I can only speculate that the explosion may have been caused by a pressure breach and control failure.

Once the children saw what had been done to their home, they wanted to kill both Mr. Seven and Ms. Lincoln. By force of personality, Noonien convinced them that the damage was done, and both of them would suffer more from being left in the desolate climate and unfriendly culture of Northern India. The children followed Noonien away, leaving Ms. Lincoln and the physically incapacitated Mr. Seven to die.

* * *

The doctor returned to the room long after the recording session was over and the prisoner returned to his cell. He paced for awhile in front of the glass, still upset. "That man was an abomination," he said at last. "What he did was unforgivable."

Noonien looked up from his meditative pose. "So am I, and what I've done is also unforgivable. We were all imperfect. Savage."

"We scan people's genes before they're even born, isolate genetic combinations that make people susceptible to that kind of mental illness, and prepare them. We can treat that kind of sickness before it... before they..." He punched the glass, which made a low, resonant thump.

"You're actually upset about this."

"You _aren't?_"

He raised an eyebrow. "It was centuries ago. That man is long dead. And as you say, it was the symptom of an undiagnosed mental illness."

"I'm sorry. I just... I'm sorry." He struggled internally with what he had witnessed. "It's impossible to understand that kind of act. That's what makes it unforgivable, I guess."

Noonien's gaze softened, he stood and approached the glass, without hostility. "It did upset me for a long time. He was supposed to be someone we could trust, but he betrayed us. Many do, particularly when they discover what we all are. But Gary Seven was predisposed to his weakness by forces he could not control, exposed to temptations which were genetically designed for charisma and physical superiority. He was doomed in spite of his good intentions. I knew it when he first arrived and I believe Ms. Lincoln knew it, too."

"You blame that on the way you were created? That you couldn't have friends, because you had to expect everyone to betray you?" McCoy shook his head. "Sounds bleak. What about the Sikhs?"

He smiled sadly. "After I helped them achieve their political necessity, they were hunted and beaten in their homes and in the streets. I could only protect my village when I wasn't in the compound, and if I spent too much time out of the compound, the project directors would have sent men with guns to find me, and would have shot every one of my adopted family. I was away too often and too long. They had to move to safety. They moved to England and I tried to follow them, but they were not much safer there after our home was destroyed. They... forgot me." He tilted his chin up a modicum and narrowed his eyes critically. "You said 'couldn't,' and 'had.'"

The doctor had difficulty smiling past the weighty gloom of the day's revelations, but he managed. "It has been puzzling the medical and scientific community since the late 2000s, that certain genetic alleles documented in the 1990s with the mapping of the human genome, have mostly died out. These alleles being the kind of thing that encourages reproductive success- aggression, impediments to compassion, negative neural feedback during the learning process. I think you _did _pursue the genetic sciences, and I think you did something." His face darkened. "Of course, that would make us all genetically modified. Which is in violation of Starfleet regulation. In fact, I think it was us who proposed that legislation, because of the Eugenics Wars."

"The irony hasn't escaped me. It also occurred to me while reading the histories of the time I spent asleep, that no alien race would ever have given humanity any technology if you had remained the way you naturally were. Humanity in the 21st century could not have joined Starfleet. Which makes the irony even more wonderful." He paused. "I am not proud of it, however. It may have taken humanity longer to develop to where you are now, but you would have learned more in that time. Perhaps, if it hadn't been forced upon you, you might have learned that a species ought to control its own biological destiny. Without that, you are just animals."

McCoy's frown became less sympathetic and more horrified. "How?"

"A virus. An ordinary, simple retrovirus loaded with a few lines of code and the necessary chemicals to splice them in. The same way humanity made bacteria produce insulin for them. I put it in the drinking water of London, Hong Kong, and Rio de Janeiro, and it affected gamete production in the host so that the next generation was better. It spread from host to host by fluid contact, so it was a mathematical matter of time before all of humanity was exposed. Back then, antiviral therapies were only used for people with ebola and the human immunodeficiency virus, so it was unlikely to be stopped before doing its work." He didn't smile or gloat. In fact, he looked a bit sad. "But recent events prove that I did not succeed as well as I had hoped."

"Climate change caused viral epidemics in the early 2100s, so antiviral therapies became mandatory for every human. Your virus only had three generations to work."

Noonien winced. "Bad luck. But worth the try. You seem so much more stable, now; so much more willing to learn and explore and experiment. And you've stopped warring with each other. Now you just war with others. I suppose even that is an improvement."

"I don't get you," McCoy scowled at him. "You talk down to us, about us, but you try to make us better in your own sick way."

"You were expecting genocide, perhaps?" He chuckled. "I don't want you to fail. I don't want anyone to fail. I want everyone to evolve. What I am is an abomination, but I am also a goal. Humanity can be better. Humanity can be like us, but without our flaws, without our brutality. You just have to make a concerted effort."

The doctor shook his head. "We did make a concerted effort to make people better, and it ended in war. Your wars. You were there to see it."

"Your histories are wrong," Noonien insisted. "We were made because of the war. The war was in the making long before we were. The Eugenics Wars were over resources and religious superstition. Genetic manipulation and selective breeding were only weapons, not reasons. And you banned it like you banned lead bullets, white phosphorous, and land mines, when you should have been banning the atom bomb, the drone, and the remote laser. There are vast differences between tools, methods, and ideas."

"You should write a book," McCoy told him, baiting.

"You'll put me back to sleep before I could do any good, for fear of me doing any harm. As well you should. After all," he paced back to his bench, turning his back to the doctor and ending the conversation, "Even my ideas are dangerous." But he paused, and repeated, "'Couldn't. And 'had'?"

This time, McCoy turned his back and walked away, feeling very mysterious and cryptic indeed.


End file.
